Papal decree

53

The noise was deafening. Vehicles of all kinds circled the runway in an ordered chaos typical of a big city at rush hour. The jet waited for Sarah, ready for departure.

They arrived in a black SUV with tinted windows, driven by one of Garvis’s agents, who sat in the backseat with Sarah and Jean-Paul.

Sarah carried only a simple leather folder pressed between her hands. Inside it contained the most important parchments in Christianity, and Sarah was deathly afraid of losing them. Her nervousness made it hard to breathe. The sickness threatened to return. She should never have agreed to do this. Who did she think was judging her? Mother Teresa of Calcutta, who was ever ready to resolve the problems the church got into? Friendly couples like the Isaacs? How she longed for a normal life, without thousand-year-old secrets, or any secrets, without the human cruelty that prevailed everywhere, especially on the highest levels. God was said to have created man in His own image, but she knew this was a lie and, worse, the terrible truth that contradicted that affirmation. It was man’s fault. It was he who created God in his own image — cruel, intolerant, spoiled, punishing, greedy, fearful. How could billions of people believe in an all-powerful, omnipresent, moral being with so many faults and such a bad temper?

‘Thanks again for cooperating, Sarah,’ Garvis said in a baritone voice with a West Country accent.

Sarah hadn’t noticed his voice before. It was curious how concentrating so hard on one thing could block out everything else. Sarah would not make a good detective. Sometimes the obvious escaped her, even though, as a journalist, a certain nose for things was essential.

‘What will the procedure be?’ she wanted to know.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ Jean-Paul asked worriedly.

‘Yes. Everything’s okay. A little weak, maybe,’ she excused herself. She didn’t want to admit that she was nervous, even if it was obvious.

‘You can eat on board. Don’t be nervous, Sarah,’ Garvis instructed.

The limo followed an unidentified vehicle, a kind of low tractor with a fork in front. Several identical ones were busily working the runway. Their function was to move the planes from the gate to the taxiway, ready to follow them to the runway, since planes can only move forward on their own.

They stopped at a kind of crosswalk, though nothing Sarah could see identified it as such. Across the way she noticed a fleet of four private planes. One of them would carry her to her destination, and then… who knew? She felt as if she might not survive.

‘Aren’t you going with us, Inspector Garvis?’ she asked, to hide her discomfort.

‘No, Sarah. Relax. You’re in good hands. Inspector Gavache’s team is first-class. Too many people just get in the way.’

She had no more questions. In this case they would know the international protocols better than she.

Leaving behind the crosswalk, the limo drove a few hundred feet to a Cessna that awaited them. Garvis was the first to open the door and let Sarah and Jean-Paul out. The noise of the engines was deafening.

‘All ready?’ he shouted at a worker in a fluorescent jacket and ear protectors.

‘Everything’s ready, sir,’ he answered respectfully, loud enough to be heard, and gave a thumbs-up.

Then Garvis shook hands with a man in a suit. ‘Garvis, Metropolitan Police,’ he introduced himself. ‘Are you the one I have to thank for the plane?’

‘Not me, but the American people,’ the other answered, maintaining his grip in a firm, courteous way. ‘David Barry, FBI,’ he lied.

‘Sarah, once again, thanks for all you’re doing,’ Garvis said to the journalist. ‘And don’t worry. They’ll defend you with their lives if necessary.’

Sarah got most of what was screamed at her. The noise was immense. A plane started to take off on a runway next to them, lifting off with a roar that filled the surroundings. Sarah acknowledged Garvis with a nod, but Garvis kissed the back of her hand. A gentleman. Then a handshake for Jean-Paul.

‘Bon voyage.’

‘Merci.’

Sarah gripped the folder securely and followed Jean-Paul to the steps of the plane.

‘Oh, and, Sarah?’ Garvis shouted seconds before another plane took off nearby.

Sarah looked at him from the door.

‘Greet him for me,’ Garvis asked.

‘Who?’ Sarah asked.

‘You know who,’ Garvis said, getting in the front door of the limo, smiling slightly, leaving behind the confused noise and vehicles.

Jean-Paul disappeared inside the plane when his phone began to ring. The American was the last to enter.

A pretty flight attendant and steward with everything in its proper place greeted the passengers.

Jean-Paul exchanged some words in French, of which Sarah barely understood half, not enough to connect with the conversation.

‘It was Inspector Gavache. He’s on his way to the airport, but he has to take a short detour. We’ll have to wait a few minutes.’

‘That’s all right. We have time,’ Barry said.

Sarah didn’t care. She wasn’t in charge of anything. Her purpose was only one, to hand over the documents and hope for the best. How idiotic to play the role of Saint Sarah.

Jean-Paul led her to her seat. The backs were very comfortable, but Sarah was already familiar with the perks that money, public or private, can buy.

‘Hello,’ an older man greeted her, who Sarah thought must be a French agent, seated with a half-open newspaper on his lap. ‘You must be Sarah Monteiro,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He snatched the folder with the parchments out of her hand without even asking. ‘Let me take this weight off your hands.’

If circumstances had been different she might have enjoyed this gallantry, but unfortunately they weren’t.

‘And you are?’ Sarah asked suspiciously.

‘Jacopo Sebastiani,’ he said, lowering his head humbly. ‘At your service.’